Subtlety
by satiric-pandas
Summary: "What do you want from me?" "Just a simple conversation with a fellow artist." "The problem is that I don't consider you an artist." Deidara let go of his arm and smirked. "Hmmm… Well then, I'll just have to convince you."


**It seemed like a good idea at the time.**

* * *

Art was Sasori's life, the very thing that kept him breathing. He had been raised on it, and he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't holding a paintbrush or playing around with wood or plaster, trying to create something. He loved art, and he was good at it, so it was only natural he would build himself a life around it.

When he wasn't attending class or working on one of his personal projects, he frequented art museums. There were works he appreciated and works he thought of as merely an eyesore, but art was art and as long as it was there he was happy. It was while he was observing one of those "eyesores", however, that he met _him_.

In Sasori's opinion, the piece hardly deserved to be referred to as art. It was a mess of color, as if the creator had loaded paint into bombs and let them explode around the canvas.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Sasori turned in the direction of the voice, only to find a man about his age staring up at the painting with wonder-filled eyes.

"Is that what they call it?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head. "I wouldn't call that beautiful if my life depended on it."

"What?!" the stranger asked incredulously. "You can't be serious! This is the epitome of art, an explosion of creativity."

"It looks like the painter did it with his feet," Sasori commented. "Art should be thought-out and meaningful, something that will make a lasting impact. Art is legacy."

"No, no, no," the stranger argued. "Art should be a flash, a snapshot of the creative process that lasts for an instant and leaves a magnificent memory in its stead!"

Sasori sighed, looking back at his unwanted companion. "Who are you?"

"Oh, of course, where are my manners?" The other man extended a hand and forced a smile despite how blatantly irritated he was. "You can call me Deidara, the creator of this masterpiece."

"I think I'll stick with just Deidara. That is, I would, if it were ever necessary." Sasori turned to leave, but was stopped when Deidara grabbed his arm.

"Wait! At least tell me _your_ name."

"Sasori. Now please let go of my arm before I have to make you."

"Hmmm. You talk tough, but I feel you would have trouble owning up to your words."

"And I feel you're wrong," Sasori growled. "What do you want from me?"

"Just a simple conversation with a fellow artist."

"The problem is that I don't consider you an artist."

Deidara let go of his arm and smirked. "Hmmm… Well then, I'll just have to convince you."

Sasori sighed in exasperation. "Your work makes it look like you chose whatever colors you _thought _went together and dumped them on a canvas."

"Okay, if I'm such a disgrace of an artist, I'd like to see what you bring to the table in regards to style."

"No," Sasori refused bluntly. "My art is either for study or hobby, not for exhibition."

"Ah, so you're a student," Deidara deduced. "What university do you attend?"

"That doesn't concern you."

He shrugged. "All right, it doesn't matter. I'll figure it out myself."

"Why are you going so out of your way to talk to me? Are you really that desperate for a friend?"

"Please," Deidara scoffed. "It's not like you're surrounded by companions. Besides, you seem like quite an interesting character."

"I'm not a supporting character in the story of your life," Sasori nearly spat. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going home, and if you try to stop me I _will_ place you in a hospital for at least a fortnight."

"Fine, I'll let you go. On one condition. It won't take long, I promise."

Sasori paused to think. "Ten minutes at the most."

"Deal. I want you to show me one piece in this museum that you would consider to be art."

"Tch," Sasori scoffed, but nonetheless he led Deidara to a small sculpture he had been admiring earlier. It was nothing particularly special, just a wooden doll held up by five strings, but the subtlety of it entranced him. "_This_ is art."

Deidara stared at the figure in shock. "This is what art means to you? Where's the spark of brilliance?"

"Art like this takes more time to create, and as such its lifespan is lengthened. A spark leads to an explosion, and an explosion eventually dissipates. A figurine like this will live a life ten times the length of its creator."

"So you're saying it's immortal?" Deidara asked. He looked into the doll's hollowed-out eyes, then drew back. "It's pretty creepy."

"A frightening beauty. It's a puppet."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the concept. This doesn't seem very artistic to me, though."

Sasori crossed his arms. "And why's that?"

"For one thing, it's not very attractive. Art should be expressive. This is just…depressing."

"It's expressive in a different way. The artist is trying to convey how he or she feels, like a hollow shell being controlled by others."

Deidara looked at him, clearly shocked. "How did you figure all that out?"

"You have to look past the shell," Sasori explained. "The back story is hidden within the piece's subtlety. It's what your art lacks."

Deidara shook his head. "No, no, no. There's no point in creating art if the people admiring it have to read into it to understand its purpose. Art should bring a moment of emotion, not some sob story that takes forever to decode."

"It seems my trying to explain this to you was pointless, then. Some people just don't have what it takes to understand true art. I highly doubt I'll see you again."

Sasori turned and left, not bothering to look back until he was back in his apartment.

For the rest of the day, Sasori couldn't stop his thoughts from occasionally straying to Deidara, but the endpoint of that topic was usually something along the lines of, _What an idiot_. To him, it was obvious enough that the strange man was definitely not an artist, but he couldn't help but wonder what he meant by "I'll have to convince you".

Eventually, he gave up on thinking and picked up a screwdriver and a spare piece of wood, fully intending to escape reality through _real_ art.


End file.
